lost

– for a crippled angel –

green grows the light through the old church’s stained glass windows – and red and golden and a weird shade of blue, but mostly green, trying to decompose into rudimentary terms of human perception the flawless logic of the sun

from beneath kisses of dust, the icons stare at the bronze chandelier hanging unlit with an air of wise boredom right in the middle of the ceiling – people have forgotten the names of those who once alchemically turned their hearts into each of the objects here… people always forget, everything

he looks around, weighing with patience the grains of silence filling the space, aware of how, should a single one of them be dislocated, meanings would be gained and meanings would be lost. he then takes each of the bones of memories and gently wipes it with his thoughts, treasuring them as if in those mystique relics flew the very marrow of time. he did that yesterday, and the day before… ever since he first came here

the wood is slowly rotting, hosting tribes of insects and wormholes, and there’s no memory in its aura of the first hands that joined on it in prayer, and even the prayers’ ghosts have been exorcised by sand

nobody sees him. people come and go, failing with brilliance the test of faith – but once in a while some baby fixes his round eyes on him and smiles, acknowledging his existence. that makes the infirmity easier to bear…

and light continues to flow through the old glass, like a fluid limb of the original word, willingly fracturing itself inside the blunt gaze, just like his wings broke eons ago…

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4 thoughts on “lost”

Lovely poem. Our perceptions of angels are not all they are cracked up to be. I wrote about an angel in The Coming of the Feminine Christ: It’s perfection was death to all that was considered to be Humanity. We can never attain that perfection. It is a dangerous illusion. I really think you have understood this in your poem.

There is something brilliant here. I guess that my stereotypical view of an angel is that they don’t break. They are perfection and thus there can be no imperfections. I guess I don’t give Lucifer much thought. This poem is beautiful. It is good to feel that there is no perfection.

HI Liliana, A fine poem, which I read with mixed thoughts and emotions. On one hand, the title is perfect. On another, the title seems problematic. (This is certainly the realm of poetry isn’t it?) As a person engaged in the politics and culture of disability I find the term “crippled” perplexing. We gimps often use the term “crip” to talk about ourselves. That is a way of turning the oppressive language of disability against itself. The group that constitutes “crips” has permeable membranes; that is, some people leave and others enter. “Able bodied” is a transitory state! Indeed, disability is a socially constructed category and experience, (One of the points of the poem?) although experience suggests to me that most people don’t think about this. Being socially constructed, it is also living, definitions of disability morph and change.

One of the perceptions commonly held by TABs ( Temporarily Able Bodieds) is that crips are easily broken! (Some are.) The other widely-held perception is that we are athletes (most of us aren’t and can’t be). This misconception is even held by members of the crip community (mostly athletes). Few of us are IMMOBILE though, in spite of how we are portrayed in the media. The vast majority of us move, have the same needs as everyone else, and work hard to have meaningful lives. Often, we do this while facing enormous barriers, a most frustrating experience.

Although people may stare at us,we are not curiosities, nor or we curios. Acknowledging us as persons goes a long way, as long as we are not categorized as “other”. Being placed in the “other” category just hurts. Compassion and empathy are wonderful, although they are risky for the observer who must be able to place themselves in the other’s experience, and thus know their status as TAB may itself be transitory.